It looked deserted, like always. Max closed the garage doors behind us. Metal stairs to the next floor, narrow landing. Max's temple to the right, living quarters to the left.
"I don't think you really understand…." Luke's voice.
He was sitting in a straight chair, facing the door. Talking to a young Chinese. Flower crawled around on the floor, gurgling happily.
The young Chinese stood up as we entered, bowing to Max. He was wearing a baggy bright–white T–shirt that came to mid–thigh over black parachute pants, billowing wide at the knees and tied at the ankles around white leather high–tops. His glossy black hair was sleeked straight back, glistening under the gel.
Max pointed two fingers straight down, moved them apart, drawing a circle as they met again.
The young man nodded. Bowed to Immaculata and left, ignoring me.
I didn't know his name but I knew his game. The loose T–shirt covered a pistol, the soft shoes wouldn't make a sound. And he'd have people all around the building.
"Hello, Burke," the boy said.
"Hello, Luke."
"Am I going to live here?"
"For a while, okay?"
"Okay."
53
T he basement is full of tunnels. We stepped through, under the building next door, the one occupied by a team of Chinese architects. I hooked the alligator clips to the telephone junction box, connected the field phone. Listened for a minute: it was after hours, but Orientals aren't clock–watchers.
All clear. I dialed Wolfe's private line. No answer. Then I tried her home number. The one Lily had given me. It was picked up on the third ring.
"Hello." Man's voice, neutral.
"Could I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?"
"Who is this?" The voice shifting down a gear, harder.
"A friend."
"You got a name, friend?"
"Ms. Wolfe will recognize my voice. I'm working on something for her."
"Hold on."
Muffled noise in the background. A dog yapped.
"This is Wolfe."
"It's me," I said, soft–voiced, going on quickly before she could say my name. 'I apologize for calling you at home—it's kind of an emergency. Is this phone okay?"
"My housekeeper is especially good at sweeping. What do you want?"
"To talk to you. Face to face. About what you're looking for."
Sound of Wolfe muffling the phone, murmurs of talk.
"Tell me where you are—I'll come to you."
"That wouldn't work. I'll meet you. Wherever you say."
"When?"
"Now. As long as it takes me to get there—I'm in Westchester, just north of the city."
"You know where I live?"
"No."
More muffled conversation at her end.
"I'll give you an address. There's no number on the door. Just tap on it. Lightly. And don't go around to the side of the house…the dog's there."
"Okay."
"You're coming alone?"
"Yes."
"I'll be waiting," she said. And gave me the directions.
54
T he Plymouth's exhaust bubbled softly as I made the turn into Forest Hills Gardens, the ritziest section of Queens, not far from the courthouse. I entered the neighborhood from Queens Boulevard after I exited the Grand Central. As if I'd come over the Whitestone Bridge from Westchester, in case she had people watching.
Beautiful homes, set way back from the narrow, winding streets. Brick, stone, exotic wood…they looked like little castles. I wondered how Wolfe could crack this kind of real estate on her DA's salary—maybe she had a rich husband.
The house was the whole corner lot of the street, surrounded by a man's–height stone wall, electronic sensors set at irregular intervals along the top. The gate to the driveway was standing open. Three–car garage at the end, just around a curve. Its door was closed, the driveway clogged with cars, mostly econoboxes except for Rocco's Firebird and a red Buick Reatta two–seater. Wolfe's Audi was nowhere in sight.
I closed the Plymouth's door just as spotlights snapped to attention all around the house. A patch of darkness to the side. Behind a flat–black grid, a dog's eyes blazed.
I tapped on the front door, like I'd been told, watching my reflection in
"I don't think you really understand…." Luke's voice.
He was sitting in a straight chair, facing the door. Talking to a young Chinese. Flower crawled around on the floor, gurgling happily.
The young Chinese stood up as we entered, bowing to Max. He was wearing a baggy bright–white T–shirt that came to mid–thigh over black parachute pants, billowing wide at the knees and tied at the ankles around white leather high–tops. His glossy black hair was sleeked straight back, glistening under the gel.
Max pointed two fingers straight down, moved them apart, drawing a circle as they met again.
The young man nodded. Bowed to Immaculata and left, ignoring me.
I didn't know his name but I knew his game. The loose T–shirt covered a pistol, the soft shoes wouldn't make a sound. And he'd have people all around the building.
"Hello, Burke," the boy said.
"Hello, Luke."
"Am I going to live here?"
"For a while, okay?"
"Okay."
53
T he basement is full of tunnels. We stepped through, under the building next door, the one occupied by a team of Chinese architects. I hooked the alligator clips to the telephone junction box, connected the field phone. Listened for a minute: it was after hours, but Orientals aren't clock–watchers.
All clear. I dialed Wolfe's private line. No answer. Then I tried her home number. The one Lily had given me. It was picked up on the third ring.
"Hello." Man's voice, neutral.
"Could I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?"
"Who is this?" The voice shifting down a gear, harder.
"A friend."
"You got a name, friend?"
"Ms. Wolfe will recognize my voice. I'm working on something for her."
"Hold on."
Muffled noise in the background. A dog yapped.
"This is Wolfe."
"It's me," I said, soft–voiced, going on quickly before she could say my name. 'I apologize for calling you at home—it's kind of an emergency. Is this phone okay?"
"My housekeeper is especially good at sweeping. What do you want?"
"To talk to you. Face to face. About what you're looking for."
Sound of Wolfe muffling the phone, murmurs of talk.
"Tell me where you are—I'll come to you."
"That wouldn't work. I'll meet you. Wherever you say."
"When?"
"Now. As long as it takes me to get there—I'm in Westchester, just north of the city."
"You know where I live?"
"No."
More muffled conversation at her end.
"I'll give you an address. There's no number on the door. Just tap on it. Lightly. And don't go around to the side of the house…the dog's there."
"Okay."
"You're coming alone?"
"Yes."
"I'll be waiting," she said. And gave me the directions.
54
T he Plymouth's exhaust bubbled softly as I made the turn into Forest Hills Gardens, the ritziest section of Queens, not far from the courthouse. I entered the neighborhood from Queens Boulevard after I exited the Grand Central. As if I'd come over the Whitestone Bridge from Westchester, in case she had people watching.
Beautiful homes, set way back from the narrow, winding streets. Brick, stone, exotic wood…they looked like little castles. I wondered how Wolfe could crack this kind of real estate on her DA's salary—maybe she had a rich husband.
The house was the whole corner lot of the street, surrounded by a man's–height stone wall, electronic sensors set at irregular intervals along the top. The gate to the driveway was standing open. Three–car garage at the end, just around a curve. Its door was closed, the driveway clogged with cars, mostly econoboxes except for Rocco's Firebird and a red Buick Reatta two–seater. Wolfe's Audi was nowhere in sight.
I closed the Plymouth's door just as spotlights snapped to attention all around the house. A patch of darkness to the side. Behind a flat–black grid, a dog's eyes blazed.
I tapped on the front door, like I'd been told, watching my reflection in
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